


time to prove something

by V_e_s_a_n_u_s



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: But tries to be better, Carver Hawke Being an Asshole, Circle of Magi, Free Marches (Dragon Age), Harrowing, Mages and Templars, Templar Carver Hawke, Templars, The Circle, The Order
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_e_s_a_n_u_s/pseuds/V_e_s_a_n_u_s
Summary: Written for ThedasNet's first Creation Event - organisations! I've gone for a mishmash of the Circle and the Order because you can't really have one without the other :DCarver Hawke requests a transfer after the events in Kirkwall and finds that his job is quite different in the new Circle.





	time to prove something

It was less than a week after the explosion of the Kirkwall Chantry that Carver Hawke requested a transfer. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help pick up the pieces of the Circle there: he _did_ want to help. He just didn’t want to work in a city where they - all of them; nobles, commoners, mages, Templars - where they all looked at him and saw Hawke’s brother. No one ever saw him. Just the shadow he was standing in. No one ever seemed to understand that _he_ was a Hawke too. No one ever seemed to remember that _he_ fought alongside Hawke these past years as much as anyone else. No one ever remembered _him_. Only Hawke.

He missed Ferelden, it’s true, but when Carver made the choice to move he didn’t go back. The Free Marches was where he’d made his new life. His new life where no one saw him as Hawke’s brother. Where he was Ser Carver. He wanted to make a name for himself, and Ser Carver was a _good_ name.

He’d left the city not long after that, with a short goodbye to his brother and that was it. He had stopped by Merrill’s house about an hour before he was scheduled to leave. He didn’t quite understand why he was there, or what he was going to say. He just stood there, hand half-raised to knock, grinding his teeth, for a few minutes.

A few of the elves of the alienage were staring at the human in Templar armour, standing outside of the house of one of the sweetest apostates they knew. Naive though she was, Merrill was honest and kind and was well-liked amongst all of them. None of them wanted to see her turned in. So they didn’t look.

Because despite wanting to help, they were still only _elves_ to them.

But they didn’t have to watch her be dragged to the Circle. The strange Templar turned on his heel and left, not giving a passing glance to any of them. They wouldn’t understand. He wasn’t there for that, but he didn’t have the courage to do what he was _actually_ there for.

Carver didn’t say goodbye to Merrill. He didn’t have the strength. He kicked himself for it on the boat as he left. He had no right to care about her. When he thought about it, he convinced himself he didn’t. How could he? He’d only known her for a couple of years, and he’d barely spoken to her in those years. She’d been so sweet, so innocent-

But he didn’t care. No, he didn’t care, because…

Because now, he was just another apostate. And he was a Templar. He was Ser Carver and it was his _job_ to hunt apostates.

The second he got to Ansburg, he would do his job, and he would do his job _well._

That’s the kind of Templar Ser Carver was going to be. A good one.

 

* * *

 

The ship took him all the way to Wycome with relatively few problems. The hold smelled of damp and rot, and there were people always knocking into him as the boat rocked, but it was no better on deck, where the wind was biting and most of the passengers were vomiting into the sea. But by the Maker, it was better than the crossing from Highever almost a decade ago.

He didn’t complain. Not aloud, anyway. There was enough of that amongst the other passengers and even the crew. Mostly, he was grateful. With every breath of the putrid air, the boat sailed further away from Kirkwall, further away from Hawke, and it made him happy. Free.

Still, he was grateful when he got off in Wycome. One more night in the hold and he would have lost it.

He asked for directions every second person until finally, he found a local who could point him to the nearest tavern. The Wonky Cup or Mug or something like that, he didn’t pay much attention. All he really cared about was that it was warm and had a room for the night.

Carver perched at the bar with a mug of ale, rolling the cup around between his fingertips. He didn’t talk much: he never really had the chance when Hawke was always talking over him, or _for_ him. He was used to being talked _at,_ not with, so when the bartender started talking to him, he leant an ear. Not really because he _wanted_ to, just because he did.

“Ever been ta Wycome before?” The man said, leaning against the bar when he had a break, scratching his thick beard idly. Carver shook his head, and the bartender continued. “Aye, she’s a beauty though. Started out as jus’ a small fishing village, and now look at ‘er! The freest city the Free Marches has ta offer! Have ye ever seen a freer city?” Carver didn’t respond but kept his eyes on the man. “No? That’s because there isn’t one! Ha!” He chuckled loudly but noticed that Carver hadn’t joined in, and laughed a little harder.

“One of the silent types, eh?” He asked with a wink, before sighing softly, seeing he wasn’t going to get much of a response out of him. “Yer not from around ‘ere, are ya? Hmm? Lemme guess…” The bartender cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin. “Nevarra?” Carver shook his head with a bemused expression. “Hm, no. Err… Rivain?”

“Do I _look_ Rivaini to you?” Carver asked bitterly, before continuing with barely disguised pride, “I’m Fereldan.”

“Oh right,” the bartender nodded, pretending to be impressed, “ _From Ferelden._ That would’ve been ma next guess.”

Carver rolled his eyes, and the man disappeared for a moment, bringing a cup of wine to another customer. He stayed away for a while, conversing with a few of the other men and women sitting at the bar. Carver finished just over half of his ale in peace before the bartender came back to stand in front of him again. He would have sighed, but Carver wasn’t rude without reason. He was just tired from the trip and didn’t really want the company.

“So, yer one of dem temp-lur fellers?” The bartender said, chewing the inside of his cheek as he regarded Carver with grey eyes.

The Templar nodded evenly in response, almost wishing he wasn’t wearing the armour. It was too large to pack with ease, and he didn’t plan on bringing much. Just his lyrium, his gold and his sword. Everything else he wore, could buy in Ansburg or was provided by the Order. It did mean, however, his breastplate was grubby, most of its natural shine dulled and he didn’t _feel_ like the type of honourable Templar most people would expect.

“What brings ye to Wycome? Ain’t a Circle ‘round here for miles.”

Carver sighed softly at that. He didn’t come here for a chat. “I’m heading to Ansburg, if you must know. I transferred there after…” He trailed off, waving a hand non-committedly.

“After what, lad?” The bartender probed. Carver supposed he did this a lot; probably why barkeeps always had information to sell. He had a feeling he shouldn’t tell the man, but had no reason to feel that way. The man was just curious: there was no harm in it.

“After… Kirkwall,” he relented, “I didn’t want to have to stay in the aftermath of everything that happened there. Too many memories.” It was only half a lie.

“Kirkwall?” The man asked in confusion, “What ‘appened in Kirkwall?”

“You haven’t…? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have heard yet. An… An apostate blew up the Kirkwall Chantry…” He continued slowly, seeing the abrupt rise of the barkeep’s eyebrows, “And both the First Enchanter and Knight Commander are dead- well, sort of, anyway. The city’s gone to shit.”

“Ain’t that a story. You don’t ‘ear things like that every day,” the man seemed to take it in for a moment, pouring another ale in an awaiting mug dumbly. He returned a couple of minutes later, still just as dazed, “Sorry, lad. I… Meredith was my cousin.”

“Oh, I’m, err, sorry,” he stumbled. He never had been good at giving his condolences. “I didn’t know the Knight Commander had any family.”

“She doesn’t - not any immediate family, anyway. They were killed...” The man explained, still saddened but obviously not too deeply affected now the initial shock had worn off.

“I’m sorry for that too.”

“Killed by Meredith’s sister,” Carver stared back in shock, “She’s been through a lot. I hope she died peacefully. She deserved a good death, after so much.”

Carver remained silent. He didn’t want to smear her name in what may have been her last remaining family member’s eyes. Telling him that the woman went insane and tried to take over the city and kill hundreds of innocents probably _wasn’t_ the best plan.

Still better than the blighter that blew up the Chantry in the first place. If Anders had only-

“Thanks for tellin’ me, lad,” the barkeep’s voice cut through his growing ire, and he looked like he was about to continue, but Carver interrupted with a yawn.

“I’m going to turn in for the night, now,” he spoke over him, “Just up the stairs and to the right, wasn’t it?”

“Aye.”

“Thanks for the chat,” Carver said with a forced smile, following his own directions to his room for the night.

It had been a while since he’d had such an uncomfortable conversation that somehow got _more_ awkward as the conversation went on. It started with him just not wanting to talk and somehow ended with him telling the bartender one of his family members had died. _Good job, Carver,_ he thought, _keep spreading the good news._

Ser Carver of the Ansburg Circle would be different. That’s what he was looking forward to.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the journey to Ansburg was mostly uneventful. He mostly hitchhiked on the backs of carriages, not wanting to spend too much of the coin he’d brought before he’d even settled in. He might find he’d forgotten something vital, like-

He’d forgotten his toothbrush.

Carver realised that as he walked up to Ansburg’s Circle Tower and he kicked himself. He’d get one later, but for now, he was more preoccupied with the building in front of him. There wasn’t a Circle in Lothering, so he could only compare it to the Gallows, but by the Maker was it different.

The Gallows were terrifying to behold, as if the very bricks held the history they’d witnessed. The bricks were small and grey, and many had thick moss growing over them, darkening them further. The walls were large and imposing, reaching high up into the sky and casting long, dark shadows on the courtyard beneath them. Even as a Templar there, you felt trapped. Andraste knows what the mages felt like.

Here was different.

The Ansburg Circle was not in the middle of a city, like the Kirkwall Circle was. It was a mile or so away from the city of  Ansburg itself, and again it differed from the Gallows because it was _built_ to be a Circle, and Carver could tell. It was comprised of four towers, arranged in a square, and joined by several bridges on different levels. The spires were tall, much taller than the Gallows or any of the buildings back in Kirkwall. Their shadows were cast onto the surrounding empty fields, where several plots were marked out, growing various herbs and plants. Some were medicinal, others poisonous, but all had a magical use. The brick was black as the night, but it sparkled in the sunshine as it bounced off its smooth surface. It was truly a sight to behold.

This wasn’t just a prison, no, not like the Gallows has been. This was a place where the mages could practice their craft safely, learn and master their talents as they were supposed to. From the outside, Carver really believed that. He was yet to learn whether the same held true on the inside.

He approached the two Templars stationed at the gate leading to the towers and they both stood to attention in greeting. “Greetings, serah. What business to do you have at the Circle?”

“My name is Ser Carver Hawke. I’ve been transferred here,” he replied, watching them steadily, “I’m expected.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Ser Carver, I’m Ser Mallorick and this is Ser Prisa,” he introduced himself and gestured to the other Templar, “I will take you to meet the Knight Commander.”

Carver followed Mallorick through the smooth black gates and into the courtyard beyond, following a small stone path in the grass. The black brick stood out starkly from the well-kept grass, and he watched the clean-cut line between the organic and inorganic as he walked.

“Don’t get lost again!” He heard a shout from behind him, and Mallorick laughed softly, casting a look over his shoulder with a grin.

“Don’t tell Prisa anything you don’t want to hear about for the rest of your life,” He smiled, “That woman will be the death of me if the Knight Commander hears the stories I’ve told her. She never forgets, that one. Memory like a fish.”

Carver gave him a quizzical look. “You know fish are supposed to have bad memories right?”

Mallorick laughed in response, “Perhaps it’s me that’s the fish, then!” He clicked his shoulders as he walked, armour clinking and grinding as they approached the tower entrance. “I’m blaming the lack of downtime. I wouldn’t be half as thick as I am now if I had a decent break. Maybe catch up on some reading. I think the last thing I read was the Chant, of all things.”

“Not particularly devout, I take it?”

“Ha! Don’t let the Knight Commander hear you say that! She’ll have your head!” Mallorick chuckled and pushed open the large wooden door.

“Oh? She can’t be any worse than my last Knight Commander.”

“Now, that’s a story I’m going to have to hear, I know it,” he grinned over his shoulder at Carver, “Hensley’s stern, but fair. And damn good at her job, too. But she’s _very_ Andrastian.”

“The Order is a religious organisation, though. That’s hardly surprising,” Carver replied, “I’m Andrastian.”

“Ha, and so am I. Who isn’t?”

Carver muttered under his breath, mind snapping back to the Kirkwall Chantry, “I can think of a lot of people who aren’t.”

“Hmm?” When Carver didn’t repeat himself, he continued, “She’s extremely devout, as in blaspheme in front of her and you’re scrubbing floors for the next month.”

Carver scrunched up his nose. He wasn’t particularly fond of that idea, but he also wasn’t exactly the best example of an Andrastian. Most of the stuff he’d done in his life hadn’t exactly been… sanctified… His ‘endeavours’ with Faith at the Blooming Rose being a prime example. He shrugged those thoughts off, though. What the Knight Commander didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

Mallorick pushed open the door to the main tower and led Carver down a corridor to a series of offices. He knocked on the door clearly and gave Carver a reassuring smile. Not that he needed it. All he needed to do was make a good impression. _Maker, please make a good impression._

“Knight Commander, this is Knight-Corporal Carver, previously of the Kirkwall Circle, who you asked me to bring to you upon arrival.”

Carver was standing to attention behind him, eyes straight forward but he still managed to see what she looked like in his periphery. She was young, younger than Meredith, younger than he’d expected for a Templar of her rank. Her long, red hair was pulled tightly back into a bun, stretching her forehead so she looked slightly surprised. It was then that she noticed her eyes, staring right at him with a look that was certainly _not_ surprised.

“Ser Carver,” she said with a sterner and older voice than her face would’ve suggested, nodding curtly, “Ser Mallorick, return to your duties at the gate.”

Mallorick brought his heels together and saluted, before turning around and leaving, shutting the door behind him. As he did so, Carver couldn’t miss the smile and a wink he threw his way when he turned his back on his superior. Carver didn’t smile back and tried to keep his face impassive as the other man left.

“At ease,” the Knight Commander said, and Carver relaxed his position slightly, “I’m Knight Commander Hensley, although you already know that. What I am more interested in, Ser Carver, is _you.”_

“Me, ser?”

“You’re relatively new to the Templars, you’ve only been in the Order a couple of years but you’d already received your first promotion,” Carver nodded along slowly with her, “But at the first sign of trouble, you request a transfer. You left your brothers and sisters behind the moment they needed help the most. Tell me, _Ser Carver,_ why I should trust you to not do the same here?”

Carver stood, frozen to the spot, mouth agape. He didn’t see it like that. He didn’t abandon them. He just… It was…

“My brother…”

“The Champion of Kirkwall. Don’t tell me you transferred because of sibling rivalry.” Carver grit his teeth. It was _more_ than that. He needed to be more. He needed to find his place; his _own_ place.

“Knight Commander… if I may speak freely,” he began slowly, and she nodded in response so he took a cautious breath, “I… understand why we do what we do to mages. I understand that. I _support_ that. What I don’t support…” he eyed her carefully to gauge her response, “Is unwarranted malice against the people we’re supposed to protect. What I saw in Kirkwall… I saw the Circle, I saw the _Order_ at its worst. And now… the Circle in Kirkwall is being disbanded, it’s in turmoil, and I just…” he cleared his throat, “I don’t want that to happen anywhere else. And if I can stop it from happening here, well…” he paused again, clenching his jaw, “That’s what any good Templar _would_ do.”

Hensley was quiet throughout, waiting patiently as the Knight-Corporal paused, and she was quiet afterwards too. She watched him with attentive eyes as he stood in silence after that. Carver hoped she couldn’t see the nervous clenching and unclenching of his jaw. She could.

“Corporal,” she said, still eying him, “Did you practice that speech on your ride here?”

He let out a soft bark of a laugh, “No, Knight Commander. I’m Fereldan, we tend not to plan that much in advance.”

Hensley gave him a small smile. “Well then, Ser Carver, I respect your honesty. We’re always in need of ‘good Templars’, as you phrased it. Do your job, and do it well, and you’ll hear no complaints from me.”

“I plan on it, Knight Commander.”

“Right, then. Follow me, I’ll introduce you to the First Enchanter, then I’ll get you someone to show you around,” she stood and walked out of the door, and Carver followed diligently behind, “There’s a roster up in your Common Room for your duties. You won’t be on it yet, but it’ll be updated next week with your jobs. For now, you’ll be on duty in the library.” Carver nodded without complaint, but didn’t respond verbally as Hensley was knocking on the door across the hall from her own office.

“Enter!” Came the shout from the other side, heavily accented in a way that was so typically Antivan Carver was surprised it wasn’t fake. He’d only met a few Antivans in his time; an elf on Sundermount, Zevran, he thought his name was; a couple of girls in the Blooming Rose; and the strange man who visited Lothering from time to time, offering wine in exchange for stories or coin. All of them with the same accent, but none as thick as the voice of the man on the other side of the door. Carver was surprised at what he saw on the other side of it.

Orsino had been old, refined and determined: overall very well put together and there was an air around him that demanded respect. It didn’t matter that he was an elf, nor a mage. He was in charge, none of the other mages ever doubted that. Carver had expected most First Enchanters to look like that. Tired and wizened, always fighting for equality for their charges. The man in front of him did not seem to share the same presence.

He was dark-skinned, as most Antivans were, with long, uncombed black hair disappearing behind the neck of his robe. The robe itself was…  exotic. It was made of a shiny yellow material wrapped around him like a scarf, leaving plenty of smooth skin to be seen. He also had a large, golden earring in, dangling low so much that it touched his bare shoulder. The man was slumped in his chair, feet up on the desk, staring at his polished nails with disdain, barely raising his brown eyes when they entered.

Nothing like Orsino _at all._

“Luidweg, this is-”

 _“Ser Carver,”_ the man said, spinning his legs off the table and coming round and extending a hand to Carver for him to shake, “A pleasure.”

Carver furrowed his brow slightly, before shaking his hand. The Antivan’s hand was soft, unlike Carver’s which were calloused from sword-fighting. It was like the man had never held a staff in his life. _No, not like that,_ he thought, trying not to grin as he thought of Merrill and the insistent _“Did I miss something dirty?”_ at nearly anything he said. Unless he was _actually_ saying an innuendo, at which point it went right over the elf’s head.

Luidweg withdrew his hand, and Carver grimaced as he realised he’d been shaking hands with him _way_ too long, lost in thought. “You are from Kirkwall, no?”

“I’m from Ferelden, but I served in the Kirkwall Circle, ser.”

The Antivan grinned. “Fereldan, uh? Seems I am not the only foreigner here anymore, Hens!” The Knight Commander grimaced at the nickname, but said nothing, “Our Circle is not the Kirkwall Circle. Treat the mages here with respect, my friend, and we will treat you in the same way.”

“I intend to, ser.”

Luidweg gave a bright smile and perched on the edge of his desk. “Then we shall get on marvellously!” He paused, cocking his head towards the Knight Commander, letting his dangling earring brush his collarbone. He flicked it behind his shoulder without a thought as he spoke, “Anything else you need me for, Hensley?”

“No, Luidweg. Just to remind you that we have a Harrowing this afternoon. You will be required to attend,” she said shortly.

“Ah, yes. Lovely Triaria,” he paused for a moment, glancing aimlessly beyond them, “Have you ever taken part in a Harrowing, Ser Carver?”

“I can’t say I have, ser. None of the apprentices in the Gallows were considered strong enough to resist a demon.”

“The Gallows?” The First Enchanter queried with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, ser. The Gallows was the… nickname of the Kirkwall Circle.”

Both the Knight Commander and First Enchanter frowned softly. Carver was surprised. No one ever brought up the significance of the name very much in Kirkwall. It was something that just _was._ Now that he thought about it, it was harsh. He decided not to bring up the Gallows’ historical function. It seemed neither of them wanted to find out how the mages were kept just as the Tevinter slaves were over a thousand years ago.

“Ah, I see,” Luidweg said slowly as Hensley’s face darkened.

His preconception of both of them had been wrong. Perhaps it was that he was expecting them to be copies of Meredith and Orsino. Hensley didn’t seem tyrannical. She seemed to actually care about the mages. He’d thought Luidweg to be lackadaisical at first but obviously, he cared about the mages as much as Orsino had, if a little less obsessive. It was a refreshing change. Carver hoped it was a change for the better.

“By any means, if you haven’t taken part in a Harrowing, you should. I want you there,” Hensley said matter-of-factly, turning to him, “In fact, you’ll bring Triaria to her Harrowing. Understood?”

“Yes, ser.”

“You are aware, I assume, that apprentices do not know when their Harrowing is going to happen?” Luidweg’s face had returned to its usual smirking position, no evidence of his sombre attitude not two minutes before on his face. Carver nodded. “Bring her to the Harrowing Chamber after lunch. You have seen it, yes?”

“I’m getting someone to show him around after this,” Hensley cut in before Carver could answer.

“Ah, then I won’t keep you waiting,” Luidweg gave him a smirk, hopping off the table to sit down at his chair, rearranging his robes so he could put his feet back on the table comfortably, “I hope you enjoy your time here, Knight Corporal.”

Carver nodded respectfully and didn’t comment on the odd display, as Hensley said goodbye and led the way out of the door. He shut the door behind him and regarded the Knight Commander as she sighed.

“I don’t hate mages,” she said to him with a soft smile, “Just that one.”

Carver laughed, “If I can be frank, ser, he’s not what I expected. He’s… eccentric.”

“He’s _unprofessional,_ Corporal,” she corrected, “But he’s a good mage, and he cares for his charges. Can’t ask for more than that,” she paused for a moment, shouting a name down the hall. A moment later, a short, weedy Templar came running around the corner in response. “Ser Marcel, show Ser Carver around, he’s just arrived.”

“Yes, ser!” Marcel replied earnestly, and with that, the Knight Commander left. They both relaxed their stances when she was out of sight. “Marcel,” the man said, extending a hand, “A pleasure.”

“Carver,” he replied, shaking his hand firmly, “Likewise.”

“We’ve got lots of ground to cover and not a lot of time,” Carver raised an eyebrow in response, and Marcel grinned, “Because it’s almost lunch. And I am _not_ missing lunch. The others will eat it all without a second thought. _Trust me.”_

Carver laughed, and followed the short man down the hall, listening as he pointed out various rooms. This floor was mainly offices, he learned, so he wouldn’t be spending much of his time in there, but Marcel said the dorms were upstairs. They were just about to head up the stairs when Carver had to stop him.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Carver said, pausing with one foot on the first step, “I have to take… Maker, what was her name? Tria to her Harrowing this afternoon: could you point them out to me if we see them?”

“ _Triaria,”_ Marcel corrected with a grin, “She’s sweet; spends a lot of time in the library. I’ll take you there after dorms, okay?”

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

There were _a lot_ of rooms. Carver was thinking he would need a map just to get around. He met a couple of off-duty Templars in the dorms, and then Marcel had almost begrudgingly taken him to where he’d be sleeping. There were fewer beds in the rooms for the Knight-Corporals, so it was a lot roomier. He put his small bag on the unused bed in the corner and followed Marcel back out again. The rest of that tower was other dorms for the mages, but they didn’t go in any of the rooms and just passed them by. Marcel said they didn’t like to breach the mages’ privacy unless they had a reason to. That was a nice change from the Gallows, where they’d have to barge in and do spot-checks, turning an unsuspecting mage’s room upside down to find evidence of something, _anything_ to call them out for. Carver didn’t like that.

The tower opposite was mainly for recreation. It had musical instruments and common areas for the mages, where they could rest and relax after a day’s training. They had nothing like that in Kirkwall. To be honest, for most of his years in the Gallows, the mages were confined to their rooms. They’d pretty much stopped practising their craft altogether by that point. When they left the rooms… it was never for a _good_ reason, to put it mildly.

The other two towers were for academic and practical applications of magic, where most of the Templars were stationed during their active hours. There were rooms for all aspects of magic Carver could think of (and a few more that he couldn’t). There were large practice halls dedicated to each specialisation, one of which two senior enchanters were hurling boulders at each other whilst a horde of apprentices watched, enraptured, and the Templars were also staring, with rather more concerned expressions. Marcel took him past lots of rooms like that, and it felt like their education was a priority. Carver appreciated that. It was how it _should_ be.

At the top of one tower, there was the Harrowing Chamber, a large room with black walls encrusted with small gemstones so they sparkled in the light. It was quite impressive to behold, especially as the sunlight streamed through the translucent gems to cast colours onto the dark floor. It was like being under the sea and looking into the night sky at the same time. It didn’t seem like a room that warranted the name Harrowing Chamber.

At the top of the other tower was a two storey library. Carver didn’t spend much time in libraries, but the room was particularly impressive even by his standards. This was where Marcel nudged him in the side with his elbow and pointed not-so-subtly at a small figure in the corner, mostly hidden behind a book.

“That’s Triaria,” he whispered, barely making a sound. The room had to be enchanted, Carver thought, for his voice to be dampened so much. Marcel led him around the rest of the library as he spoke, “She’s one of the eldest apprentices. She’s 20, came to us from the Dalish. Well, I say _came to us…”_

“Were there too many mages in her clan?” Carver asked. He thought he’d heard Merrill mention something about not being able to have many mages in a clan at once, for their protection. To be honest, a lot of the time when she was speaking, he tended to get lost in how soft her lips looked, or how her eyes sparkled when she found something particularly interesting. Most of the stuff she talked about _was_ beyond him: she may not have known lots about humans, but when it came to elves and their history, she was a genius.

Marcel shook his head and glanced over his shoulder warily, “No. You’ve met Gregory? You know, big fellow, bigger ginger beard?”

Carver thought he’d mentioned that name in one of the dorms, but he couldn’t be certain. He had seen someone by that description, he was sure of it. He nodded despite his uncertainty.

“He was following one of the woodland trails up in the Green Dales, when these knife-ears jump out of the bush, right? So Greg tells them he don’t want no trouble… that is, until he realises one of them’s a mage,” Marcel checked again that the elf was out of earshot, “And then he has a _duty_ to bring her in, right? Long story short, he ends up his beard on fire but Triaria in his custody. He killed the other one. Her brother, I think.”

“Oh,” Carver said softly: he hadn’t expected that.

“Yeah. She keeps mostly to herself, and her books, though. That’s why she’s older than all the rest, she had to relearn most of her magic the proper way.”

“Dalish mages are still good mages,” he found himself saying.

“Oh are they? And how would you know?”

Carver sputtered nervously, “Well, uh- I… if they didn’t teach magic well, there’d be no clans left?”

“Ha,” the other Templar chuckled softly, “Fair point.”

Marcel led the way back out of the maze of bookshelves and started heading down one of the large stone staircases. He headed for the door leading to one of the bridges that led to the tower for recreational activities, if Carver remembered correctly.

Marcel paused before they went through, “You got anywhere else you want to see? I think that’s everything you need but I might have missed something.”

“I’m all set,” he said with an appreciative grin. This had been a lot more welcoming than the Gallows, at least.

“In that case…” Marcel turned to the big door and pushed it open, letting a big gust of wind blow in, “It’s time for lunch.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they’d finished lunch, Carver had located Triaria and was preparing for informing her of her Harrowing. She was sitting a couple of tables away from him, with the rest of the mages. She didn’t look like she was part of them, though.

She was on the end of a table, sitting next to a mage guffawing loudly and pounding his hand on the table, but her body was ever so slightly turned away from them, her tray as close to the edge of the table as possible. Her red hair fell in front of her eyes as she picked at the food on her plate. She hadn’t eaten much, poking idly the grey meat with a fork.

Carver didn’t know if you were supposed to eat before a Harrowing. What he did know, is that if it went wrong it could be fatal. He’d want his last meal to be a good one. Then again, he supposed, she didn’t _know_ it was going to be her Harrowing.

She got up not long after that, clearing her plate and walking out of the room without a word as everyone else was stirring and beginning to do the same. Carver hurried to stand, do the same, and follow her out. Mages weren’t supposed to be alone and unsupervised at any time, or was that a rule in the Gallows and not of the Order? Either way, he was told to bring her to the Harrowing Chamber after lunch and needed to know where she was.

He saw the end her soft green robe disappear around a corner at the end of the hall and he jogged to keep up. It was then that the doors behind him opened and the rest of the mages and Templars started to pour out of the lunch hall. Luidweg brushed past him, giving him a smile and stopping briefly.

“Enjoying your first day, my friend?” He asked, having to look up quite a bit to meet Carver’s eyes, being almost a head and a half shorter than him.

“Yes, ser,” he said, eyes still on the spot where Triaria had disappeared, which was now blocked by the trail of people splitting in various directions.

“Ah, that is good,” Luidweg followed Carver’s eyes blindly into the crowd, “Don’t forget about the Harrowing. I will see you soon, no?” He clapped his hand on his back and disappeared into the crowd.

Carver looked at the crowd and fell into step next to a Templar leading a group of four or five mages down the corridor Triaria had gone down. “Where are you heading?”

“I’m taking these robes to the library, ser,” the man said shoving a thumb over his shoulder towards the group following him. It seemed not all of the members of this Circle were as accepting as they’d originally seemed. Perhaps Carver just _wanted_ to think this Circle was different, that it was _better_ here, so that’s what he saw.

“I am coming too,” Carver said, thinking Triaria may have gone (or retreated) back there. The other man gave him a look, but didn’t complain, giving him a respectful nod and continuing. Carver’s armour, though dirtied, showed his rank was still higher than his, and the Templar must have noticed. Knight Corporal wasn’t exactly the most prestigious of ranks, but Carver was proud of it, nonetheless.

It was one thing he had up on his brother, anyhow. When was the last time _he_ was promoted?

He chuckled silently as the group made their way to the library. He didn’t mean to be such an ass, not _all_ the time, anyway. Sometimes his thoughts just got carried away with himself, and his brother always gave him plenty of reason to be infuriated. And that’s what he was proud of most in that moment as the Templar followed him without question.

He didn’t follow him because he was Hawke’s brother. Hawke didn’t tell them to do anything. They didn’t _know_ Hawke.

That Templar obeyed because of _him._ His rank, his order. Him.

 

* * *

 

In a matter of minutes, the group was surrounded by tall shelves and the deep smell of old books and leather. The mages began to disperse amongst the aisles, searching for various texts, returning old ones. The Templar accompanying them leant tiredly against one of the bookshelves and stared blankly into the room, clearly not invested in their activities. Carver started to look around, searching for that green robe amongst the bookshelves.

The room was warm, Carver noticed, as he wandered the maze of tall bookshelves. It was uncomfortably hot for him, walking around in full armour with a hot meal in his belly, but he was sure that for the mages, in their considerably lighter clothes it would have been nice. Cosy, even. He wasn’t sure if anything at the Gallows could have been considered cosy. Even the Templar quarters were cold, despite the fact so many beds were crammed into one room, mostly because of the thin sheets and lumpy mattresses. And, of course, he’d almost forgotten. The overuse of their Templar abilities made the reality more ‘real’, so it was less palpable to mages, but it lost its touch with the Fade. It was colder, void of something he could never put his finger on. Carver had never realised how much that other world impacted him.

It was the tingling on his face when he was happy, drawn to the emotion like a moth to a flame. It was what made that shiver down his spine before a battle. It made the world darker when he was angry. It had been very dark around Hawke as of late. He never thought it could’ve been darker than when Hawke left him behind when he set off for the Deep Roads. He was wrong.

He’d never been angrier, his vision never been more clouded, than when he saw what _that mage_ had done. He’d never liked the healer. Who could like an abomination? How could _Hawke_ keep him around? The way his brother looked at the man, always bringing him along, defending him after all that he did… it made him grit his teeth. _His brother did not have feelings for that abomination._ His brother was many things, but he was not stupid. Right?

He was _glad_ he was away from Kirkwall. From _them._ Now that he thought about it, he _hated_ them.

Hawke, and the shadow he cast that stretched for miles. Always putting him down, never giving him credit for the things they did together.

The healer, for everything. The lying, the sneaking around, his revolution, his blighted Manifesto, the _Chantry._

Varric, for calling him Junior. For not arguing that _he_ earned those 50 sovereigns as much as his brother did, for picking on him, always seeing him as inferior.

Isabela, with her endless teasing. Never really seeing him as a real man, always making him uncomfortable and laughing at him.

Aveline, for not trusting him. For meddling with his first chance at a career away from Hawke before it could even begin, just because she thought he lacked discipline.

Fenris for snapping at him. For putting him down and seeing his struggles as minor plights.

Sebastian for his blind piety. For never understanding what the role of a Templar truly entailed.

Merrill, for never getting the hints.

He sighed. He hadn’t meant to get worked up. He didn’t hate them. Not really. They frustrated him, annoyed him no end, but he didn’t hate them. They were his friends. Almost.

Carver shoved one of the ladders attached to the bookcase away from him idly as he walked, watching it spin away on its wheels, until it crashed into Triaria rounding the corner and knocking her and her books to the ground. He grimaced as she landed with a thump and hurried to help her up.

“Maker... shit,” he grumbled lowly, mostly unintelligible but the elf could still make out some of the words, “Stupid… blighted ladder… royally cocked this up…”

Triaria took his hand unsteadily, using it to pull herself up. She barely weighed a thing, Carver thought, he hardly felt it as she used his arm as leverage to stand. The elf turned to pick up the books and Carver began to do the same, and she looked at him peculiarly.

“I’m sorry,” Carver said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he handed her the books he’d collected, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t aiming for you.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” The girl said, taking the texts and balancing them unsteadily in her arms. To Carver’s ears, her tone was sarcastic, scoffing at him in disdain. He cringed.

Carver was sputtering now, feeling awkward and embarrassed with an uncomfortable blush on his cheeks. “Well, I… it wasn’t… you see, I… Maker, this is going terribly…”

“You’re an odd shem,” she said slowly, watching him fail at explaining himself, “I meant that in the sense that it’s new. For a Templar,” she said, pointing to him, before turning the finger to point at herself, “to apologise to a mage.”

“Ah, well it _was_ my fault.”

“That hardly seems to matter.”

It went silent for a moment. Her tone has darkened and he didn’t quite know what to say. Perhaps he really _had_ misjudged the Ansburg Circle if she had such low opinions. Or perhaps she was just opposed to being imprisoned, no matter how gilded the cage.

“You’re Triaria, right?” Carver asked, switching the subject to what he was more comfortable with, regaining control of the conversation and the unease in his shoulders.

“I am, ser.”

Carver raised an eyebrow at that: she hadn’t addressed him formally before. Perhaps now that he had a name to tie to her face she was more likely to be in trouble? Carver didn’t know.

“I was sent to bring you to your Harrowing,” he said plainly, not expecting her response.

Her eyes widened in shock, and Carver swore that under her robes he could see her chest rise and fall faster. “M-my Harrowing? Now?”

“Yes, I’ve been told to take you to the Harrowing Chamber as soon as possible,” Carver continued slowly. He’d never done this before. Judging by her reaction, he perhaps should have broached the subject gently. And perhaps not have started by beating her up with a ladder. Just a thought.

Especially since the addition of the time constraint seemed to panic her more.

“I- but I’m not ready, I…” she was hyperventilating by then, eyes wild and looking as if she was about to run, “This is a _shemlen_ ritual, I- I don’t need to-”

Her voice was loud, breaking past the muffling enchantment that kept the library quiet. She was attracting a lot of attention: mages looking up from texts, whispering to each other too quiet for them to hear, and even a Templar appeared at the end of the shelves, staring at them.

“Sweet Maker,” Carver said under his breath, glancing around worriedly, “Come with me,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the room and into a small alcove.

She pulled against him, fearing he was dragging her to the Harrowing Chamber unwillingly, but didn’t dare use her magic, “Let me go!”

It was as he ducked into the alcove with her that she managed to get a solid punch in, snapping his head sideways with the force. He hadn’t expected _that._

“Ow.” Carver said, irritated, but didn’t let her go, “Okay listen- _listen_ to me.”

It took her a moment to stop struggling. Triaria looked at him, confused. If he wasn’t bringing her kicking and screaming to her Harrowing by force, then… the only other reason for him dragging her out of sight was… much more sinister. She shuddered in his grip and Carver let go instantly, seeing the dawning terror in his eyes.

“I’m not going to- _Maker,”_ he rubbed a hand over his face, “I’m Carver,” he said slowly, “Look, I know this is going to be scary. But… ah, shit.”

The elf didn’t seem to calm after that. He tried again, trying to form his words a bit better this time.

“I’m new here, alright? I’ve never been to a Harrowing, so I can’t tell you what it’s like, but…” he took a breath, “But I knew a Dalish mage, where I was before. And she was… she was a great mage. Very strong, disciplined. One of the best mages I’ve ever known. And if you’re Dalish too… then that means _you’ve_ received similar training too, right? _And_ you’ve been trained in a Circle, too. Are you a good mage?”

“I… I am.”

“You’ve had more training than half the apprentices here, if they can do it, of course _you_ can,” Carver leant back, letting that sink in.

Triaria paused. “I-I suppose you’re right. Thank you… Ser Carver.”

“Just Carver is fine,” he said, giving her a small smile, “Do you feel any better now?”

She took a few steadying breaths, seeming to become more of herself again, “Yes. I think I do. It still doesn’t mean I’m _happy_ about it.”

Carver laughed softly, “And I don’t blame you for it. But the Circle, it’s necessary, and for all you might hate it, we’re just trying to make it so that you’re safe. The Harrowing just proves that you’re not a danger: to yourself, or anyone else.”

She frowned softly, “We may have to disagree on that point,” she raised an eyebrow in challenge, “That Dalish mage you knew: did she ever go to a Circle?”

“No, but-”

“And she was still a good mage?”

“Yes, b-”

“Thus this shemlen tradition isn’t necessary to make good mages. The Circle’s just here to keep mages in check. It’s a prison.”

“Triaria, you don’t understand. She was a good mage, but the freedom she had… she made bad decisions, and those decisions made her _dangerous._ The Circle makes sure that doesn’t happen to everyone.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “Freedom is the ability to make those decisions for yourself. Not to have them made _for_ you. I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“Yes, but they weren’t the right reasons.”

“And that was her choice.”

They stood in quiet for a moment. Carver was frustrated, she couldn’t see that this was there for her protection. Triaria was angry, he wouldn’t see that they didn’t _need_ protecting.

The Templar sighed after a while, “We need to get you to your Harrowing. Are you feeling up to it, now?”

“Yes, nothing like a political debate to prepare you to test your mettle,” she said with a small smirk. She’d almost, _almost_ forgotten that she still had to go through with this, no matter how much they argued. She’d almost forgotten the fear that was snaking its way around her heart. None of them knew what the Harrowing was. All she knew is that she could come back a full member of the Circle, or she wouldn’t come back at all.

Not that she _wanted_ to be a member of the Circle anyway, but it did beat the alternative.

“Come with me then,” Carver said, leading her back into the hallway and making his way towards one of the bridges.

They didn’t talk on the way. They both were lost in their own thoughts.

Triaria was breathing deeply and soothingly. The Templar was right, she was a good mage. She’d trained well and trained hard with her Keeper. If she got through this, she could keep working her way to get back there. Back home, with her clan.

Carver was thinking, too. If he were back in the Gallows, he would have been reprimanded for letting a mage talk back to him, if his superiors had found out. The other Templars would have shut her up, one way or another. Carver was never like that. He only forced his hand out of necessity, and even then he was hesitant. He saw the reason for what they did. It didn’t mean he had to _like_ it.

When they arrived outside of the big, grand doors to the Harrowing Chamber, Carver paused, turning to the elf. Her eyes were wide, staring at those doors. What lay beyond them may be her future or her death, and she had no way to know which.

“Are you ready?” He asked, scanning her tattooed face carefully. He couldn’t really do anything if she said she wasn’t, but he felt it was right.

“Not really. I don’t have a choice, do I?” She glanced at him hopefully, nonetheless.

“I’m afraid not.”

She sighed, “I didn’t think so. Creators protect me,” she took a step towards the doors and placed her small hands on the ornate handles, and then paused right before she pushed the doors open, looking back at him, “Thank you, s… Carver.”

He gave the back of her head a reassuring smile, not that it really helped, and then followed her through the doors into the waiting room of people. The room was still as impressive as it was the first time he saw it: the bright midday sun refracted by the gemstones in the walls to create a myriad of colours on the shiny, black floor. The font in the middle of the room was glowing, now, filled with lyrium, Carver suspected.

“You took long enough, Ser Carver,” Hensley half-growled at him from his left, “We’ve been waiting.”

“Sorry, ser. I had trouble locating her, is all,” he said quietly, lying through his teeth as she led Triaria to the centre of the room, where Luidweg was waiting.

They both seemed rather sombre. The expression looked peculiar on the Antivan mage’s face, and his stance seemed somewhat more formal than it had been in Carver’s previous encounters with the man. His head was held high, hair brought back into a simple ponytail, some of the excess cloth from his robe thrown over one arm as he watched the elf with steady eyes.

The Harrowing was a formal ceremony, Carver knew that, but he hadn’t quite realised how seriously the Circle took it. Someone’s life was at stake, he supposed. His eyes lingered on Triaria’s form, who had begun to breathe a bit faster again, nervousness clear in her tense figure. He hoped she succeeded.

Carver went to join two other Templars stationed across the room, ready to act if things took a turn for the worse. They nodded at him as they joined, and then they all turned to face the scene before them as the ritual began, repeating lines that had been spoken for centuries at Harrowings just like this one.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” the Knight Commander said, stepping in front of the short elf, “Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin.”

“Your magic is a gift, but it’s also a curse. For demons of the dream realm, the Fade, are drawn to you, and seek to use you as a gateway into this world,” the First Enchanter added gravely, the most serious Carver had heard him yet, “This is why the Harrowing exists. The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon,” he paused, looking the small girl in the eye, “Armed only with your will.”

The mage did not respond, staring only at the ground. She’d heard of this, _prepared_ for this. But none of the apprentices knew that _this_ was what the Harrowing entailed. The alternative was Tranquility, she knew that. It wasn’t an option. But facing a _demon?_ Nothing could have prepared her for that. So she stayed quiet. So they wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice if she tried to speak.

Hensley continued with a grim face. She hated this part. “Know this, Triaria: if you fail, we Templars will perform our duty,” she took a steadying breath, “You will die.”

Carver kept his eyes on the elf, seeing her ears twitch. It didn’t feel right. You fail once and your life is forfeit? He sighed quietly. He supposed that was the way it _had_ to be. You couldn’t come back from becoming an abomination. There was no life after that. Not one worth living, anyway. Living like Anders. It was the way it had to be. For mages, there were no second chances.

All he could think is that he was glad Bethany didn’t have to go through it.

“This is lyrium: the very essence of magic and your gateway into the Fade,” Luidweg gestured to the font in the middle of the room, glowing softly with the lyrium held within. A glow Carver knew all too well. “The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity, my friend,” the First Enchanter gave the young mage another reassuring smile, “Every mage must go through this trial by fire. As we succeeded, so shall you,” he patted her shoulder gently and urged her towards the font, “Keep your wits about you and remember the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is _real.”_

“You are ready,” Hensley said, putting her hand on Triaria’s other shoulder as they walked towards the lyrium, “Good luck.”

The elf took a steadying breath before taking the final step towards the font alone. She raised her slender hand and tried to hide the fact it was shaking as she plunged it into the lyrium. It came out, glowing, bright light shining in the dark room, before she collapsed, seemingly asleep. She looked almost peaceful, as if her body didn’t know about the perils her mind faced.

The First Enchanter and Knight Commander turned to face eachother, “And now we wait,” Hensley said, grim-faced.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've never written Carver before, and I kinda struggled with his viewpoint so he kinda flips between whiny and hardass sorry for that XD  
> Hope you enjoyed, leave a comment and kudos if you have the time! (✿◠‿◠)


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